


Your Lies are Your Life

by kjack89



Series: Graceland Reincarnation AU [1]
Category: Graceland (TV), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Enjolras!Mike, Lies, M/M, Mike-Centric, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Warren is assigned his first trainee at Graceland, a sarcastic cynic who prefers going by the moniker "R". Not only does he discover a connection to R from a past life, but R isn't really who he seems. Now Mike has to not only struggle between being Mike or being Enjolras, but also may have to choose between his duty to his country and the man who very well may be the love of his life (or lives).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shelny18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelny18/gifts).



> So. This started as a dream (I legitimately wish I was joking) but then when I told some people about it on Tumblr I was encouraged to make it into something. So really, blame the people who encouraged me (particularly shelny18).
> 
> I know Graceland reincarnation AUs have been done before so I apologize for the lack of a wholly original idea, though hopefully some things in here are unique or different enough. Set post-Odin, but vague spoilers possible for anything in the first season. The other Graceland members may make a vague appearance but nothing substantial.
> 
> I really wanted this to be about trying to reconcile Mike and Enjolras, who really are very, very different characters on a lot of levels, with the addition of E/R because I cannot restrain myself when it comes to E/R. So expect a lot of that in the future.
> 
> I have no idea how many parts this will end up being but I think maybe 4? We'll see. WIP so updates may be sporadic, though I'll aim for once a week.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: anything you recognize is not mine, save for the typos, which are solely my own fault.

Gerry poked his head into Mike’s room, tossing a file onto the bed when he saw that Mike was awake. “New trainee for you.”

Mike sat up straighter, grabbing the file and looking through it eagerly. “Trainee for me, sir? I didn’t think I’d be getting one of those yet. Johnny and Charlie both have higher seniority than I do.”

“True, but the Bureau wants him put on your case,” Gerry told him, sounding distinctly like he did not care what Mike did with the guy. “Something about needing the extra manpower.”

Mike frowned down at the file. He had been working the same case for almost six months now, closing in on an ex-Soviet arms dealer, Ivan Petrovich, who had set up shop in Southern California following the end of the Cold War. The FBI had been after him ever since but unable to convict him on any charges. Mike had not only infiltrated his ranks by posing as a small-time arms dealer looking to make it big in the service of Petrovich, but also by getting cred running with the Zengue gang pulling minor jobs across the area, using his old cover as a marine to add to his credibility as well. It had been hard work that had just barely begun paying off, garnering him a grand total of three meetings with Petrovich thus far. His frown deepened. “One of the most important FBI cases in this area for the past twenty years, and they want to put some newbie on it?”

Gerry shrugged, his perpetually unhappy expression even sourer than usual. “I don’t make the orders, I just hand them out. If you’ve got a problem you’re gonna have to take it up with someone higher up.”

For a second, Mike considered doing just that, but even though he was no longer on the FBI’s shit list after all that went down with Briggs and Odin, he still didn’t want to cause more trouble than it would undoubtedly be worth. Instead, he threw some clothes on and went to the airport to pick up the trainee.

As he waited, he read through the file, suitably impressed. Excellent scores, top rankings in all his proficiencies, but there - something that threw Mike off - under assignment, it was listed as “Requested: Graceland.”

Considering when Mike was at the Academy he had never heard of Graceland (though of course he knew undercover safe houses existed, just none of Graceland’s magnitude), the fact that this kid not only knew what Graceland was but had actually requested it as an assignment threw up all kinds of red flags. The kind of red flags that Mike, given his history and his own assignment to Graceland, was far too familiar with, and thus it was with not a small amount of suspicion that he waited for his trainee.

And waited.

And waited.

It was an hour after his flight was supposed to have landed that Mike finally saw him, or rather, saw the only person who could potentially be him, since the entire baggage claim area had cleared out by this point, save for the lone figure lounging in one of the chairs, headphones in, hoodie on, eyes closed, dark curls unruly, looking like he had not a single care in the world. Mike glanced back down at the file in his hands, raising a skeptical eyebrow that this guy could be the same guy described there.

There was only one way to find out, and so Mike tucked the file under his arm and walked over to him, unsure whether to poke him to make sure he was still breathing. He settled for clearing his throat and asking, “Greg Rolland?”

“It’s Grégoire; yes I know it’s stupid but my mother was a francophile,” the guy corrected him automatically in a single breath, sitting up and stretching, opening his eyes to reveal the bluest eyes Mike had ever seen, eyes that ran up and down Mike’s body in a way that made him cough and blush. “You must be my training officer. Call me Aire.”

Mike shook the guy’s proffered hand, brow furrowing in confusion. “Mike Warren. You want me to call you air?”

The guy - Air? - laughed, a full laugh that made him throw his head back, revealing perfect white teeth. “Not air, Aire. It’s French for the letter ‘R’.”

“So you want me to call you ‘R’?” asked Mike, sounding incredulous.

Still laughing, R flashed him a grin. “If that’s what you want to call me, I’ll take it.”

Mike just blinked at him, unsure of how to respond, and settled for saying, awkwardly, “Well, good, because we don’t get to pick our own nicknames in Graceland. I got mine assigned to me after my first sort of case.”

“You don’t get to pick your nickname, huh?” R asked, his grin turning speculative. “Well, in that case, I’m going to call you Apollo.”

“Apollo?” Mike frowned. “No way. I’ve already got one stupid nickname assigned to me. I don’t need another.”

R’s grin widened. “Tough shit. I thought you didn’t get to pick your nickname in Graceland.”

“I...you…” Mike stared at him, frowning. “You’re going to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you?”

“I aim to please,” answered R easily, standing and grabbing his bag. “So, let’s get to work, shall we?”

Mike had a feeling that the furrows in his brow were going to become permanent the longer he had to work with this guy. “Let’s not run before we walk, alright? I gotta make sure you’re up to snuff before putting you on as big of case as the one I’m currently working on. Your file didn’t say - do you speak Spanish?”

“Sí, claro,” responded R with a perfect accent. “Parles-tu français?”

Frown deepening, Mike muttered, “No, I don’t speak French,” his ears turning red, hating being showed up by his own trainee.

Something in R’s smile changed, softened, and he said, in a low voice, “Il est très chanceux que tu ne parles pas français parce que je veux te dire que vous êtes l'homme le plus beau que j'ai vu et je pense que c'est le coup de foudre.”

They walked along in silence for a moment after that, Mike racking his brain for any words that he might have recognized, but instead settled for sighing finally and admitting, “You know I didn’t understand a word of that.”

“I know. Which also means you didn’t recognize how bad my grammar is.” R’s grin faded into something more serious. “So are you going to tell me about Petrovich?”

Mike stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, eyes dark, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he looked at R coolly. “I don’t know, are you going to tell me what’s really going on here? Because I’m not an idiot. You specifically requested Graceland, which is a classified undercover safehouse. How did you know about it? How did you know about my assignment with Petrovich? What are you really doing here, R?”

R held up his hands defensively. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here! Take it down a notch, Apollo. For starters, I didn’t request Graceland. I requested you.”

Gaping at him, mouth open, Mike repeated dumbfoundedly, “You requested me?”

“Yeah. You. Are you kidding me, man? You’re a legend. They’re already teaching about you at Quantico, saying you’re one of the best there’s been in years. And I figured, I wanted to train under the best.” R’s smile was genuine as he continued, “I mean, they can’t say anything but your name, couldn’t tell us any details except that it was undercover work, but man, the way they talk about you - I figured you had to be some kind of god.”

Mike laughed, looking embarrassed. “I’m hardly some kind of god. I just believe in justice and in wanting to help people, the good guys winning and all that, you know?”

R nodded, though his lips twisted wryly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“What, you don’t believe in any of that?” Mike shot back.

Smiling slightly, R said, “No. No, I don’t. Real justice is very rarely served in this country. And what do you even qualify as justice anyway? An eye for an eye? A tooth for a tooth? Because in that case some of the gangbangers we take down have the concept of justice down a lot better than we do. Besides, I just find it ironic that you still believe in good guys winning when, unless I’m mistaken, your first assignment involved you taking down a massive corruption within the FBI. If the FBI can’t even be considered the good guys, who can?”

Mike raised one eyebrow at him. “What the hell are you, some kind of cynic?”

“Maybe. I prefer being called a realist. What are you, some kind of idealist?”

“Maybe,” Mike shot back, riled. “I prefer calling it still believing in humanity.”

R laughed dryly. “Humanity’s a sham. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen--” He broke off, coloring slightly, and looked away.

“When I’ve seen what you’ve seen, what?” asked Mike, feeling tired all of a sudden. “What have you seen in your life that’s so terrible, that’s made you into such a cynic?”

R’s eyes met him squarely, and the smile on his face turned grim. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Then he looked away again, running a tired hand over his face. “Jesus fuck, I need a drink.”

Mike snorted. “A burgeoning alcoholic on top of being a cynic? What a wonderful trainee they’ve sent me.”

“You’re no picnic either,” R snapped. “For someone with your sterling reputation, you’re a pretty shitty training officer thus far.”

Both men just stood and glared at each for a few moments until Mike deflated slightly, running a hand through his hair and shuffling his feet slightly. “Look, we...we got off on the wrong foot. And I’m sorry about that. I’m just...I’m a little suspicious of, well, pretty much everyone right now. And I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

The smile that lifted R’s mouth looked only slightly fake, and he relaxed as well, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. “Hey man, I understand. Let’s just start over, alright?”

“Sure,” Mike agreed, smiling again. “That sounds good.”

They walked together towards the airport exit and R nudged him companionably with his elbow. “Just don’t think that this means I’m gonna take it easy on you or something. Because I am still going to be a pain in your ass.”

Mike looked sideways at him, his face breaking into a genuine smile as he chuckled, “Honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

* * *

 

The next few weeks were spent acclimating R into Graceland and into his assignment. Much to Mike’s chagrin, R fit in instantly at the house, making friends with Johnny as soon as they met, and by the end of his first week, Charlie was mothering him as much as any of the others (though R seemed to try and avoid her motherly gestures, turning red whenever she made comments).

Still, though R seemed to fit in just fine, he seemed far more content to sit back and crack jokes than to take the lead on the assignment. He knew everything he needed to, had clearly read the case files backwards and forwards, but he also made no efforts to actively engage with the case. In fact, the only thing he seemed willing to do was to point out every flaw in Mike’s plans, every regulation that could be potentially broken, and when Mike asked him if he had any suggestions, R would just sit back and smile and tell him, "That's your job, Apollo. I'm just a trainee."

It got to the point where Mike stayed up at night, massaging his temples in an effort to get his headache to recede, jaw clenching as he dreaded another day of working with this guy.

It also didn’t help that R seemed like a natural when he did actually have to do something for the job. He hadn’t been integrated into the Petrovich case yet since he was still being put through his paces, but Mike had him do an exchange his first week in order to get a feel for how he handled undercover, and R handled it like a dream.

There was just something about him, something almost indefinable, a quality that enabled him to slip through a room unseen, to leave no memory or just the vaguest recollection of himself behind. The drug dealer they arrested after the exchange tried to describe R to the arresting officers and couldn’t seem to decide whether R’s hair was brown or blond, whether he was tall or short, could only say definitively that he had blue eyes.

In other words, R had every quality necessary to become a phenomenal undercover agent, save one: desire to actually do it. Contrary to his words to Mike at the airport, he seemed to have no real desire to be at Graceland, to be training with Mike, though he did ask fairly regularly when he was going to be put on the Petrovich case.

All this did was put Mike’s hackles up more than they already were, his suspicion increasing with every day.

Eventually, despite Mike’s many attempts to delay, the Bureau got involved and insisted Mike start incorporating R into his undercover work. So Mike set up a simple meet and greet with one of Petrovich’s underlings. “Now remember,” he told R on the day of, tapping his fingers nervously against his leg as he watched R eat breakfast, “this is just an introduction. Petrovich may not have any use of you.”

R rolled his eyes. “I got it the first four times you said it, Apollo.”

Mike rolled his eyes right back. “What’s your cover name?”

“Greg.”

“Last name?”

R met his eyes squarely. “He asks for my last name and I tell him I prefer not to deal in full names. He should let it go at that. If he persists, I’ll tell him that in the Russian tradition, my surname would be ‘Johnson’.”

Mike couldn’t help but smile a little because despite R’s attitude and droll delivery, he was spot on with everything they had discussed. “And what’s your cover story?”

“I am a research specialist at a private military firm. I’m potentially interested in trading information on upcoming arms developments for a cash incentive.” R sounded almost bored as he relayed the facts.

“And how do you and I know each other?”

R groaned. “Seriously, man? We’ve been over this like eight times, and--” At Mike’s glare, he sighed and said reluctantly, “Fine, whatever. You and I went to Annapolis together. You went on to become a marine; I got injured during my first tour in Afghanistan. We kept in touch because we were in the same company. We were even friends, once upon a time. And you owe me - so I’m cashing in my favor.”

Mike grinned. “Perfect.”

“Yeah, I know,” sighed R, draining his glass of orange juice.

“You’re going to do fine out there,” Mike told him, sincerely, and R smiled a little back at him.

“Well, with Apollo himself believing in me, how could I do any otherwise?”

* * *

 

The meeting itself went fine. R was absolutely flawless, charming without being remotely threatening, memorable while all the details were forgotten instantly. Mike couldn’t help but feel a twinge that R really was excellent at this, if only he applied himself. And if only he wasn’t up to...whatever it was he was up to.

After the meet ended and Petrovich’s guy split, Mike and R hung around the bar for a bit, keeping up their cover of two old buddies hanging out, just in case they were being watched by anyone who could report back to Petrovich.

Which was where it got complicated, because Mike spotted across the bar a guy with tattoos distinct to the Caza cartel. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his grip on his beer bottle tightening.

“What’s wrong?” asked R instantly, following his line of sight. “Mike, who is that?”

“He’s Caza cartel. Clearly missed being rounded up with the rest of them after my previous case. R, I gotta take care of this, but we have to make sure we don’t blow our cover.” Mike’s eyes shifted around the bar, which was filled with a normal assortment of patrons. “I think we’re clear in here. Can you check outside real quick?”

For once, R didn’t try to argue or question Mike’s plan, just nodded, draining his beer and sauntering towards the door as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As soon as he was gone, the man from Caza started crossing toward Mike, cracking his knuckles menacingly. Mike stood up, hands held in front of himself, placating. “Look, man, I don’t what you want, but I don’t want any trouble--”

The guy’s fist across his jaw effectively cut him off from talking and he staggered back, the room spinning from the intensity of the blow. He blinked and shook his head feeling like he was going in slow motion, when-- “Mike!” he heard R shout from across the room in warning.

He barely had time to register the panic in R’s voice before he felt the blade of the knife slash across his ribs. _Not again_ , he thought briefly before his instincts took over, twisting away from his assailant, who was tackled to the ground by R, who had apparently sprinted across the room to Mike’s side.

Not wanting to even think about what it would have taken R to get to his side in half a second, he sat up from his position where he had fallen on the ground. “You got him?” he asked, voice rough.

R didn’t look up from snapping the cuffs on the guy’s wrists. “Yeah. He’s unconscious. I, uh, I may have gotten a little over enthusiastic when taking him down, but hey, at least our cover’s not blown, right?”

“Right,” Mike winced, looking down at the thin cut that was oozing blood onto his shirt.

Glancing over, R paled visibly. “Shit, you’re hurt.”

Mike prodded the wound carefully. “It’s not bad,” he said, though he winced again. “It shouldn’t even need stitches.” He started to heave himself up from the ground but stopped halfway through.

“Fuck’s sake, Mike, hold on a second,” R huffed, striding over to him and leaning down to pull him to his feet. As he did, Mike stumbled slightly, falling against R, who caught him to steady him, one hand on his waist, the other grabbing his wrist. “Whoa, man, are you ok?”

Though Mike quickly recovered himself, he couldn’t stop the blush that spread across his face. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said quickly. He glanced down at where R still grasped his wrist and stuttered, “You, uh, you can let go of me.”

“What, and have you fall over again?” R asked, voice light. “I don’t think so.” As if to prove his point, Mike barely took another step before he almost fell back on to R, who chuckled softly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. No way I’m letting you go now.”

Instead, his hand slid from Mike’s wrist to clasp his hand. And in that moment, everything changed.

It was as if Mike’s entire world had been simultaneously thrown out of any existing order, but also as if everything was suddenly twice as clear. He felt a rush of memories that didn’t seem to belong to him, of words he shouldn’t understand, of a time long ago, of a whispered, “I believe in you” and “Permets-tu?”

And then his eyes snapped up to meet R’s. Based on the look on his face, R had just experienced the same thing, and was staring at Mike with something close to reverence on his face.Mike just looked into eyes that suddenly seemed like the focal point of his entire world, the only thing familiar in a world that no longer made any sense. “Grantaire?” he breathed, not knowing where the name came from, only knowing that it was true and it was real and it was right.

R just looked back at him, eyes wide and filled with some emotion that he couldn’t even begin to make sense of as he whispered, “Enjolras?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was going to wait and clean this up to publish tomorrow, but in celebration of Graceland's renewal(!!), thought I'd publish it today.

Mike and R just stared at each for a long moment, hands still clasped. Then Mike dropped R’s hand as if he had been scalded. He cleared his throat and looked away. “We, uh, we better do something with this guy,” he said quickly, nudging the guy on the ground with his toe.

“Enj--Mike,” R started, looking pained, but Mike continued to not meet his eyes.

“We can’t let our cover get blown. Not now. I’ve worked too damn hard for this.” Mike reached down and pulled the still-unconscious man to his feet. “I’m gonna take this guy out the back, put him in the alley and call 911 to have him brought in. You go out the front like you’re making a phonecall or going for a smoke or something, and I’ll join you when I’m done, ok?”

R nodded, though his eyes were troubled. He headed in the direction of the front entrance as Mike dragged the guy out the back. He propped him against the dumpster and called Charlie, explaining the situation and asking if she could call 911 from one of the burner phones.

Having a task was good. Having something to do was good. It kept his mind clear and focused. But as soon as he hung up with Charlie, his mind seemed once again filled with images and people he didn’t recognize. A sandy-haired man with glasses, arm slung around a laughing man with dark curls - he felt a curl of recognition in the pit of his stomach, and of warmth and comfort, as if these were very old friends.

He blinked, trying to clear his head. He didn’t know these people. He didn’t know Grantaire or R or whoever (though he now understood the pun, a something in him twinged at the thought that R had retained that little part of his former self, when it seemed that Mike had retained nothing). He knew who he was, Mike Warren, but the edges of his world had somehow frayed, trying to connect back to this Enjolras, which just did not make any sense to him.

There was something close to fear that resonated in him as he tried to sift through the onslaught of memory because Enjolras - whoever Enjolras even was - the only thing Mike could tell for certain was that Enjolras had killed what looked an awful lot like soldiers to him. And that made his stomach churn to even think that he was somehow connected to a man like that.

So he shoved the memories to the back of his mind and went to find R, ignoring the way that his heart seemed to leap at the idea of being in R's presence again. That was something he couldn't even begin to tackle right now.

Instead, he joined R in front of the building, giving him a tight smile. "We should go," he said, not waiting to ensure R was following him as he headed towards his car.

Luckily, R followed him, and even waited until they were both in the car and on their way back to Graceland before asking quietly, "Are we going to talk about this?"

"Talk about what?" Mike asked, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. "The fact that you and I apparently know each other from a past life? The fact that I have no fucking clue who I even am any more? The fact that I don't even know if I was a good guy in my past life?”

R glanced over at him, frowning. “What are you talking about?” he asked softly. “Enjolras was one of the best man that I...that Grantaire ever knew. Strong and brave and determined--”

“And someone who killed soldiers,” Mike said flatly. “I’m sure you can see as someone whose first duty is to his country how that wouldn’t sit particularly well with me.”

R looked almost pained. “It wasn’t like that back then. It was a different time. You were fighting for your country, for the ideals that you thought your country deserved. You were fighting against an oppressive regime that was contributing to terrible life conditions for a majority of its citizens. You were fighting for a better tomorrow for all people, and if that doesn’t sound like a good person to you, then I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”

Mike gripped the steering wheel as tightly as he could, jaw clenched. After a long moment, he said softly, “Not me.”

“Sorry?” R said, glancing over at him.

“You keep saying that I did this or I did that. That wasn’t me. That was Enjolras.” He looked over at R, who was biting his lip and frowning. “How can you be so calm about all of this? How are you not freaking out that you’re suddenly this entirely different person than what you always thought you were?”

Chuckling slightly, R ran a hand through his hair. “Because I’m not an entirely different person. To be entirely honest, all of this makes sense to me, in an odd sort of way.” His voice was quiet, contemplative, only a little strained. “When...whatever it was that happened, you know, happened, it...it was as if the entire world suddenly made sense to me. Why I am the way I am made complete sense to me. As if there was some sort of hidden part of me that I’ve been missing all my life suddenly fell into place.” He looked over at Mike again, looking almost nervous. “And you...you made sense. Like you and I were somehow meant to find each other.”

Mike flushed slightly, and he determinedly did not look over at R. “None of it made sense to me,” he said softly, his voice flat. “These feelings, these memories...they’re not mine. It’s as if someone is trying to foist something on me that just doesn’t fit.” He sighed and looked down. “I wish that this hadn’t happened.”

They were quiet until Mike pulled into the spot in front of Graceland. He sighed again and avoided looking at R. “I’m gonna go for a run,” he muttered. “Try and clear my head.”

“Enjolras--” R started, but Mike shook his head.

“It’s still Mike. Whoever the hell this Enjolras is, he’s not me.”

R frowned, eyes dark, but continued doggedly, “Mike, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s not...I mean, it’s not strictly related to this, to what’s happened, but it’s related to, well, us, I guess--”

Mike glanced back at him and shook his head. “Whatever it is, R, save it. I honestly can’t deal with any more secrets or lies right now.”

Nodding slightly, R looked down at his hands, swallowing hard. “Fine. Then I’ll just say this. Since you have all of Enjolras’s memories, you must, uh, you must know how he...how he felt about me. About Grantaire. How he...how he hated us. Or at least, didn’t think very highly of us. And I just...I hope that this doesn’t affect you and I.”

Mike blinked, surprised. “Enjolras never hated Grantaire,” he said automatically, knowing in his gut that it was true. “He...he had a lot of feelings for Grantaire.”

He tried determinedly not to blush, even as R looked up at him, something flickering in his eyes. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Mike got out of the car and paused, hand on the car door, looking out toward the ocean. “Just remember...I’m not Enjolras.”

With that he closed the car door, perhaps harder than he needed to, and headed out to the beach, not seeing the way that R watched him walk away, pained look on his face.

* * *

 

Mike ran on the beach for as long as he could, considering he wasn’t wearing running clothes and didn’t have his iPod with him. This meant he had nothing really to distract him, defeating the purpose of running to clear his head.

Still, it felt good to run, to feel his heart beating in his chest, his lungs expanding and deflating rhythmically, his feet pounding against the sand. It made him feel alive. It alleviated the lingering feeling of bullets tearing through his flesh, his hand being wrenched from someone else’s as he fell backwards.

R’s hand, he realized, after a long moment, the memory surfacing almost sluggishly, R’s eyes - no, Grantaire’s eyes - blue as they ever were, meeting his as he asked softly, “Permets-tu?” Asking permission, permission to die by his side, permission that he - no, that Enjolras - had granted by grabbing his hand.

And with that memory came a flood of others, of evenings spent together in the cafe with their friends, of arguments and fighting and Grantaire calling Enjolras out on all sorts of things. It was, he realized, in a weird way that did strange things to his stomach, not all that different from the way he and R acted now.

But that didn’t change the fact that he was not Enjolras, he told himself fiercely.

And, he added to himself when his stomach flip-flopped again, it didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t gay.

Of course, he reflected, running even faster, the memories he had of Enjolras didn’t exactly illuminate if Enjolras had been either. Enjolras, from what he could tell, had never been interested in anyone, male or female. But he had had a connection with Grantaire, a connection that somehow followed Mike to this lifetime, to R. And it was a connection that didn’t make any sense whatsoever, that made Mike want to both kill him and, just a little bit, in a way that scared him more than anything, want to kiss him.

What was worse, that thought didn’t seem wrong. If anything, it seemed remarkably right. For all that R’s presence in his life had thrown Graceland into turmoil, he had also never felt more settled than he did in this moment, like a solid, tangible connection anchored him in a way it never had before. He had missed R in his life, he realized, missed him without knowing what he had been missing all of these years.

Additionally, for better or for worse, R was the only person in the world who possibly understood what he was going through, battling between the real world and the world of his - of Enjolras’s - memories. Which would make him a valuable person to have in his life still, everything else aside.

He slowed to a stop, resting his hands against his knees as he thought about it. He needed R, had perhaps always needed R, and it didn’t make any sense, but R - Grantaire, he supposed - was the only one who could help him make any sense of it.

So perhaps, he reflected, heading back towards Graceland at a walk, still lost in his thoughts, perhaps he ought to get to know R more, get to re-know Grantaire, and maybe even get to know Enjolras just a little. He could try and learn what all of this meant, and he thought for the first time all day that it might be worth it to try.

With that decided, he quickened his pace to reach Graceland sooner, and once he did, he jogged up the stairs to R’s room. Mike knocked on the door and poked his head into the room. “R?” he called, and after a moment, and perhaps against his better judgment, “Grantaire?”

There was no answer and so he opened the door, looking around. The room was empty and Mike sighed, pounding his fist lightly against the door frame in frustration. He was just about to turn around and leave when he saw what looked like a duffel bag half-stashed under R’s bed.

Biting his lip, Mike stared at it, indecisive. On the one hand, violating R’s privacy seemed like a bad idea, all things considered, but on the other hand, he had wanted to get to know him better...

He found himself slipping inside the room, pulling the duffel bag out and setting it on the bed, surprised by how heavy it was. With only a cursory glance at the door, Mike unzipped the duffel bag and glanced inside, freezing when he saw its contents. “What the fuck, R?” he breathed, tipping the bag to let the sniper rifle within fall out on to the bed. “What the fuck are you up to?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a whole lot in terms of plot development here, but lots of angsty fighting between Mike and R/Grantaire.
> 
> It's looking like this may end up being 5 parts. We shall see.

The moonlight on the waves was probably beautiful, were Mike not entirely preoccupied with R and with everything that was going on. He had texted Johnny to see if he knew where R was, and Johnny had responded that R had said something about going to the beach. Which was why Mike was now scouring the shore, half-hoping he wouldn't find him, half-hoping he wouldn't have to have the conversation he was dreading.

But then he saw a familiar silhouette, saw R sitting at one of the old lifeguard stands. He looked up when Mike approached, giving him a half-smile. "Hey," he said.

"Hey." Mike looked around. "Interesting choice, the lifeguard stand."

R laughed and took a swig from the bottle of whiskey sitting next to him. "You always see it in movies and TV shows, you know? So I thought I'd try it out. It's as good a place as any to try and clear my head."

He hesitated for a second before handing the bottle out to Mike, who took it and took a hefty swig from it. R's eyebrows shot up and he laughed lightly. "Apparently you aren't as similar to Enjolras as I thought."

Mike scowled and nudged R jokingly. "A lot's changed," he said, his tone slipping into something far more serious as he stared down at the ocean. “I feel like I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“I know exactly who you are.” R’s voice was low, almost heated, the levity gone from his tone as well. “You’re the guy who fights for liberty and for justice. And you always have been. That hasn’t changed.”

Mike looked down at his hands. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” He sighed heavily, trying to put the mess of emotions he felt into words. "Look, if this job has taught me anything, it's how to acknowledge and accept that the world is not black-and-white, that there is a lot of gray in our world. But to me, looking at what Enjolras did...what _I_ did...that's terrorism. Plain and simple.”

“Except not plain and simple,” R said, frowning at him. “There’s nothing plain and simple about that. You’re projecting something from a different time onto modern day without giving a damn about the circumstances.” Mike shook his head and started to speak, but R cut him off. “Look, would you say that the men who fought in the Revolutionary War were terrorists? Because that’s - I mean, the parallels aren’t exact, but they’re still there. The patriots in the Revolutionary War were fighting against a monarchy that was actively hurting their fellow citizens. That’s exactly what you - what _Enjolras_ \- was doing. You _died_ for a vision that was not to be realized until years later, but you still died to try and bring it to light.”

Closing his eyes, Mike said through gritted teeth, “I also killed men in order to try and bring that vision to light.”

R’s eyes met his. “And how many men have you killed over the course of your job with the FBI?”

Mike slammed his fist down on the railing. “Damnit, that’s _not_ the same thing!”

To his surprise, R smiled at him, almost wistfully. “And there you go again with the black and white. You like to define things one way or the other, and things that challenge those beliefs frustrate you, drive you up a wall, and you spend half your time beating your head against the wall until you’ve come up with new ways to define things to keep them neat. You really haven’t changed one bit.”

“Neither have you.” Mike said it abruptly, almost as if he hadn’t meant to, and his ears flushed slightly, even as he continued, “You used to do this to me all the time. Call me out on shit. Try and piss me off. And we used to fight. But you were the only one who would tell me the truth sometimes.”

Mike couldn’t be sure if he has imagined it or not, but R seemed to freeze for a brief moment before saying softly, “And I still am. I will always try and tell you the truth, even when you don’t want to hear it.”

There was a long pause as Mike looked at him, really looked, before he said softly, “Are you going to tell me the truth of what you’re doing here, and why you have a sniper rifle in your bedroom?”

R’s eyes flew to his, wide with surprise. “You searched my room?” he asked, sounding more resigned than hurt. “Look, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I haven’t lied to you, and--”

“You haven’t _lied_ to me?” Mike repeated. “How have you not lied to me? You’re clearly planning _something_ , and if that’s not a lie, then I don’t know what is!”

R rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “It’s really not as easy at that, Mike. Remember what I was saying about gray areas? This is one of them.”

Mike ground his teeth together. “That’s bullshit.” He broke off, trying to calm his temper before he continued. “You just said that you would always tell me the truth, and now I want the truth from you. Why do you have a sniper rifle, and what in the hell are you planning?”

“I said I would always _try_ and tell you the truth.” R’s voice was soft. “And when it’s in my power, I will always, _always_ do so. But this is one of those times that I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you _can’t_?” Mike spat.

R gritted his teeth. “Like I said, I _can’t_. This goes way above you and I, and if you knew what was good for you, you’d leave this alone, Enjolras.”

Mike stared at him. “It’s Mike.” His voice was soft, but there was a steely edge to it. “Though now that you’ve once again confused me and Enjolras, maybe it’s my turn. I’ve never known what’s good for me, obviously, or more accurately, I’ve always recognized that there is something bigger than me, something worth fighting for, and right now, right here, what I’m fighting for is the safety of my house and the integrity of my mission. What can be bigger than that?”

“How about the safety of your country?” R snapped. “What about the good of your nation? What about national security?”

Now Mike’s glare faltered slightly. “National security?” he repeated quietly. “Are you saying that whatever you’re up to has something to do with national security?”

R huffed a frustrated sigh and turned away. “I am saying nothing because I _can’t_ say anything.”

“I have top secret clearance.” Mike stated the words quietly, without judgment, just as a reminder of the reality of the situation, hoping, perhaps against his better judgment, that R would change his mind, would talk to him, tell him what was really going on.

Instead, R’s eyes met his squarely. “And this is classified above top secret. It’s eyes only, Enj--Mike. I’m sorry. I would tell you if I could.”

“But it does have something to do with why you’re here, right?” Mike pushed. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever reason you’re here, it has something to do with the case that we’re working, right?” R looked away, sighing heavily, and made no move to answer him. Mike bit back a swear and asked instead, “Are you even an FBI agent? Can you tell me that at least?”

R shook his head. “Don’t do this,” he said softly, almost pleadingly. “Don’t play this game. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Mike rubbed his forehead, equal parts exhausted and exasperated. “I’m not doing anything to myself. The only thing that I want is the truth, for something in my life to be truthful and honest and not buried in layers of deception. I thought you were that--”

He broke off, coming to the realization himself as he was saying it, and he swallowed and looked away. “I thought you were the one thing in my life that was truthful, that was just beginning to make sense, but now this...tell me the truth. Are you an FBI agent?”

“No.” The word was a whisper that barely seemed to make it past R’s lips. “I am not an FBI agent. I work for the Central Intelligence agency.”

“You’re a spy?” Mike asked, his voice cracking with disbelief at the entire situation.

R sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s complicated,” he said at last.

“That’s not a denial.” Grantaire didn’t look at him and Mike closed his eyes for a few moments, trying desperately to grip at the edges of his world and to hold it together as best he could even as it seemed to fall further and further apart. “What’s your name?” he asked harshly.

R didn’t even bother to sigh this time. “You know my name.”

Mike sneered at that. “Do I?” When R again did not look at him or answer him, Mike repeated, “What’s your _real_ name? Grégoire Rolland? Or is that just a cover?”

“I can’t tell you that,” R whispered. “It...it’s not safe for you to know that.”

Mike grabbed his shoulder, yanking R around so that he was forced to face him, forced to look at him, and he practically shouted, “Goddamnit, R, what. Is. Your. _Name_?”

“Grantaire!” R burst, yanking away from Mike’s grip, his eyes full of unspoken emotion. “For all intents and purposes, my name is Grantaire. He and I - we’re the same person. Names _don’t matter_. What matters is who a person is, and Grantaire and I -- I am Grantaire.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair and muttered, “You have your lofty ideals and your black and white, cut and dry. I never have. In this life or my last one.” Pausing, he gripped the railing so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I live in a gray area and nothing in my life has ever made me want to believe in something. Certainly nothing as fallible and hopeless as another human being. And then I met you and my entire world seemed to fall into place. I didn’t have to try and believe in you because I just _did_ , because I always _had_. That is the only concrete truth in my life right now. That may be the only concrete truth in my life _ever_. And I would never, ever want to do anything to ruin that.” He turned back to Mike, something close to begging written all over his face. “Mike, this segment of my life, the part that you can’t know about, that no one can know about, that doesn’t affect who I am. Can’t you see that? I’m still me, I’m still the same guy, and I haven’t lied to you about any of that.”

Grantaire reached out with trembling fingers to touch Mike’s cheek gently, and he said softly, “Please, Mike.”

Mike just stared at him. “How can you claim that you haven’t lied to me when I literally know nothing about you?”

Flinching at the starkness of Mike’s words, Grantaire’s hand dropped to his side and he swallowed. “You know _everything_ about me. More than any other person on this planet. Everything that matters.”

“I’ll be the judge of what matters.” Mike’s voice was sharp, cutting, and Grantaire flinched again, his shoulders tensing. “Has anything you told me been the truth?”

Grantaire faced the ocean, a muscle working in his jaw. “Everything that I have told you that doesn’t involve this job, that doesn’t involve Grégoire Rolland’s past, has been the truth.” His eyes flickered back to Mike’s for a brief moment then dropped. “And everything about Grantaire has always been the truth.” He took a deep breath before adding, so softly that Mike almost couldn’t hear him, “My feelings for you haven’t changed.”

Mike’s breath came out in a hiss. “Your _feelings_? Actually yours, or just some messed up version of Grantaire’s?”

“Mine.” Grantaire’s voice rang with honesty. “Feelings that I had before any of this happened, feelings that I didn’t want, didn’t ask for, but feelings that certainly made a lot more sense once I realized…”

He trailed off, but didn’t need to continue; Mike knew where he had been headed. He let out a hollow laugh, leaning down to rest his head against his hands. “I can’t believe I actually thought…” he started before breaking off.

Grantaire had gone very still next to him, a mess of emotions flitting across his expression. “Actually thought what?” he asked, breathily, as if he both desperately wanted and didn’t want to know what Mike had been about to say.

As it was, Mike just shook his head, turning away. “Nothing,” he said harshly, adding, “It doesn’t matter. It never did.”

He started to walk away but Grantaire caught his arm. “Don’t leave like this,” he pleaded, his voice soft, his eyes wide and somehow even bluer in the dark.

Mike just shook his head. “I don’t even know you.”

“You _do_ know me!” Grantaire insisted. Desperate, he pulled Mike to him and kissed him almost fiercely. “You do know me,” he repeated, a little quieter. “Or at least Enjolras does.”

Now Mike pulled away, eyes flashing. “Yeah, Enjolras _does_ know you. He knew that you were a useless fool who was good for nothing besides drinking. He knew that you had potential, sure, if you would ever try, which you didn’t. And he knew…” He trailed off, eyes hardening. “He knew that at the end he loved you. Because he apparently saw something in you that I don’t.” Turning away again, he called over his shoulder, “Stick to drinking, Grantaire. From what I know, it’s the only thing you were ever good at.”

It was the cruelest thing he could possibly have said, and he did not stay to see Grantaire’s reaction, his own heart pounding painfully within his chest. He felt as if his mind was at war with itself, memories from Enjolras battling with his own memories, Enjolras’s feelings trying to usurp his own. As he walked away, he made himself not think of Grantaire, not think of what sounded suspiciously like broken sobs from behind him.

He had a job. He had a mission. And none of this Enjolras and Grantaire nonsense was going to change that.

If only that would make it so his heart didn’t feel like it was breaking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, this is definitely going to be five parts, meaning this is the penultimate chapter.
> 
> Sorry this took so long to update! This chapter just did not want to be written.

Mike was roused by what had possibly been his worst night of sleep when something hit him in the head. “The fuck…?” he groaned, rolling over only to have something else hit his face. “Jesus Christ, Johnny, what the hell?” He sat up, picking up the flip-flop that Johnny had just thrown at him and holding it up in disbelief. “Did you throw my own flip-flops at me?”

“That depends,” Johnny said, not smiling as he leaned against Mike’s door. “Did you do something to R?”

Since that was a complicated question with an even more complicated answer, Mike looked away, focusing on his blanket as he idly played with a loose thread. “That depends,” he said, echoing Johnny’s words back to him. “Did R say something about it?”

Johnny glared at him. “He didn’t have to, man. He came home at like 2 in the morning and was a _mess_ , and left earlier this morning, taking more booze with him. So I don’t know what you did, but I’m sure you did _something_.”

Mike sighed and rubbed his temples, feeling a headache starting to grow. It was too damn early for a headache. “We fought,” he confirmed, softly, sighing and looking out the window. “It’s...it’s complicated, Johnny. There’s a lot more to R than you realize. His history--”

“Dude.” Johnny shook his head, his frown deepening. “I don’t give a shit what you two have going on. He’s your trainee. But he’s _our_ housemate, _our_ friend, and if you don’t fix this…”

As Johnny trailed off, Mike sighed again, even louder than before. “What, Johnny?” he asked tiredly, rubbing his eyes. “What are you going to do? Are you gonna be mad at me? Are you gonna pout and throw a tantrum?”

Johnny shook his head, looking at Mike sadly. “Man, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but ever since R came around…” He shook his head again. “Naw, man, I’m not gonna be mad. I’m not gonna throw a tantrum. That won’t change anything.” He started to leave and paused at the door, turning back to glare at Mike. “But I will sic Charlie on you. So you better prepare yourself for that.”

Groaning, Mike lay back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling, not even noticing as Johnny slammed Mike’s door behind him. His head was pulsing with pain, a headache appropriately attributed to R, who was a headache in and of himself. Still, Mike couldn’t help but feel a little bit guilty at the way he had ended things between them.

He just wished he knew if it was him feeling guilty or Enjolras feeling guilty.

* * *

 

Though Johnny’s threat of sic’ing Charlie on him if he didn’t fix things was a real threat (Charlie was liable to go all mama-bear and beat him up without stopping to listen to his side of things, or even worse, force him to sit down with R and discuss their feelings, which, given his now extensive history with R, seemed a disaster in the making), R did not return to Graceland all throughout the day, and despite himself, Mike was beginning to get worried.

Not worried enough to try and find him, of course, because that wasn’t Mike’s way, had never been Mike’s way (and in the back of his mind, he knew it had never been Enjolras’s way, either). No, Mike turned his worry into productivity, barricading himself in his room with Petrovich’s file, poring over it until he couldn’t see straight, looking for any scrap of information he might have missed, and memorizing every little detail, trying hard not to think about where Grantaire, where Grantaire’s _mission_ , whatever it was, somehow fit into this.

It was a losing battle, and Mike ran both his hands through his hair, gripping it exasperatedly, unable to keep thoughts of R from permeating his conscious. He wondered if Enjolras ever had days like these, unable to think, to focus because Grantaire kept niggling in the back of his mind, distracting him from everything he needed to accomplish.

And then he huffily shut the case file, wondering why he was even thinking of Enjolras at all, because he wasn’t Enjolras.

He _wasn’t_.

It couldn’t be helpful in the long run for him to keep these memories of Enjolras as if they would somehow change anything about himself. But it also wasn’t working trying to repress them the way he was, as they just seemed to resurface at completely inopportune times, right when he needed to be the most in control, the most Mike-like that he could.

So he set the case file down and glared at his reflection in the mirror, trying in vain to picture what Enjolras would have looked like. Images rose unbidden, foggy memories of flashes of a face caught in other mirrors long, long ago. Of course they looked similar, as was to be expected, but there were differences, too: Enjolras looked younger, _was_ younger than he, his hair longer, blonder, curlier, and he wore it tied back with a ribbon. His face - _Enjolras’s_ face - was smoother, less creased with anxiety, which struck Mike as almost ironic, but his eyes were fierce and sharp, full of righteous fury.

“Well let’s have it out, then, shall we?” he whispered to himself, pulling himself into a sitting position. “What do you want from me, Enjolras?”

It was insanity to even consider the possibility of reincarnation like this, let alone to think that he could somehow talk to or communicate with his past self, but at this point, it seemed worth a try. _C’mon_ , he urged silently, staring at himself in the mirror. _What do you want from me?_

And as if, somehow, Enjolras had heard him, images began flickering through Mike’s mind, so much so that he closed his eyes. It was as if watching a faded, old movie running through his head, and he found himself strangely curious what Enjolras would want to show him, images of him and his friends together, perhaps, or images of him and Grantaire.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The images whatever segment of his consciousness that was Enjolras dredged up were not of himself, were not of his friends, were not of Grantaire. They were images of people begging and starving in the streets, images of men, women, and children dying of disease, of starvation. Images of the completely out-of-proportion wealth, of those that stood by and did nothing.

Over and over these images flitted through Mike’s consciousness, and he was surprised to find himself moved by the images, filled with a rage that was not entirely Enjolras’s, a desire to _do_ something, to _fix_ the brokenness in the world. _This_ was what Enjolras had fought for, had died for, and that realization seemed to stun Mike.

Yes, Enjolras had killed soldiers to try and fight for these people, but could Mike really say that what he did in the line of duty was any better? He had killed people, too, innocent people as well as the guilty, whether by his own hand or by circumstances he facilitated through his undercover work; what difference did it make if he had a badge while doing it?

A particularly painful memory surfaced, of aiming at a soldier, of a quiet conversation:

“ _He might be your brother_.”

“ _He is_.”

“ _Yes, he is mine too. Well let us not kill him_.”

“ _Leave me alone. It must be done_.”

Because of his job, Mike operated in a world of gray areas between what was fully right and what was fully wrong, despite his convictions that lent themselves more towards the black and white. He had never before appreciated that Enjolras might have lived his life that way as well, had also made hard choices that shifted his beliefs, that circumstances had necessitated choices harder than any Mike had ever had to make.

Maybe he and Enjolras weren’t that different after all.

They still weren’t the same; they never would be. But maybe it was enough, enough to at least let them coexist without one overshadowing the other. And if he could coexist with Enjolras, perhaps his feelings for R could coexist with Enjolras’s…

“No,” he said out loud, sitting up and rubbing his temples. Because _that_ was one thing he wasn’t going to compromise on. R had _lied_ to him, was _still_ lying to him, was up to something that could jeopardize his mission, and no matter what Mike though he might feel for R - or what Enjolras felt for Grantaire; it was honestly to tell the feelings apart at this point - he was not going to do anything that would ruin this case for him.

He lay back against his pillow, suddenly exhausted. He would find R tomorrow, would force him to tell everything about his mission, would somehow get him to back off of Petrovich, and then everything would be fine.

If only the growing anxiety in the pit of his stomach would agree.

* * *

 

Mike awoke the next morning to find that R was still missing and that everything with Petrovich had gone to hell. He was supposed to be making a huge arms deal in two days time, but the buy had been bumped up. To today.

Keeping up a steady stream of swears under his breath, Mike hurried to get dressed and prepped, mentally falling back into his character, trying to shut out any lingering thoughts of Enjolras and Grantaire. They were distractions that he just couldn’t afford today.

He met up with Petrovich and his crew, and despite the change in date, things seemed to be progressing smoothly, completely according to plan. Mike just hoped that the FBI had the arrest team in place in time for the buy.

And then everything fell apart.

Their armored convoy was forced to stop by construction that Mike couldn’t recall seeing any plans for. Petrovich shrugged, unconcerned, and picked up his briefcase. “So ve vill valk.”

“Sir, I have a very bad feeling about this,” Mike told him in undertones as they stepped out of the SUV, his hands twitching toward his gun as he scanned the area.

Petrovich shrugged again. “You vorry too much. Now come. Ve valk.”

So walk they did, through the streets that weren’t closed off due to construction, and the feeling of unease in Mike’s chest only seemed to grow. The streets seemed deserted, there were far too few cars and people, and what’s worse, they were completely and utterly exposed. Which made them the perfect targets for…

A sniper.

Fuck.

Mike stopped in his tracks, taking a deep breath, because this was it. This had to be it, the plan, Grantaire’s mission, whatever. Grantaire had been put on Petrovich’s case to learn what he could so that he could take Petrovich out. Mike didn’t know why the CIA wanted Petrovich killed, but frankly, he didn’t care. He was going to take Petrovich in, have him legally charged, arraigned and found guilty, and Petrovich would spend the rest of his life in jail.

That was the justice system. That was how things were supposed to work.

But first, he had to stop this assassination. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to recall the make and model of Grantaire’s sniper rifle. _A Heckler & Kosch...probably not the PSG1A1...MSG90? That put effective range at...800 meters_.

Mike’s eyes snapped open and he immediately scanned the buildings in the vicinity, picking three that seemed like the most likely, given the lines of sight. “Sir?” he said, not looking at Petrovich. “Sir, I think you’re in danger. You should seek cover.”

Petrovich looked over at him, surprised, gripping the briefcase in his hand even tighter. “Vhat are you going do?” he asked in his heavily accented English.

Without looking over at him, Mike pulled his gun out and cocked it. “I’m going to eliminate the threat.”

And then he was running, running towards the building with the best access so that he could get to the roof and stop R from doing what he was undoubtedly about to do. There was no time to call it in, no time for the FBI to develop a response, not when he couldn’t even explain what the threat was in any certain terms.

Instead, he focused on nothing more than running, sprinting really, until he had gotten to the building in question. It was mostly abandoned, thankfully, and he managed to kick in a side door with little problem, taking the stairs two at a time as he sprinted to the roof.

Once on the roof, he slowed, sweeping his gaze left and right to ensure no one was there. The roof was clear, and Mike dropped the gun to his side, looking out at the other rooftops, trying to see R.

And - _there_ , there he was, looking into the scope of his sniper rifle as he had it clearly trained on Petrovich. “R!’ Mike shouted, running over to the edge of the roof, hoping his voice carried. “Grantaire!”

Grantaire started, and he looked over at him, mouth opening in shock, or anger, or disbelief, when --

A single shot echoed through the air.

Mike did not need to look to know that it had found its mark in Petrovich. But Grantaire had been looking at him, hadn’t even had his finger on the trigger, which meant he couldn’t have taken the shot. Which also meant…

Dropping into a crouch, Mike looked around almost frantically, trying to spot the second sniper. He saw no one. “Did you see him?” he called to Grantaire.

“The other shooter? No. The only person I see is you.” Mike stood, surprised to see Grantaire standing at the edge of his own roof, glaring at Mike. “What the fuck, Mike? What are you doing up here?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” Mike shouted back at him, resting his hands against the rail of the roof, glaring right back at him.

Grantaire shrugged, still glaring, his hands automatically disassembling his sniper rifle even without looking away. “I came up here to do my job,” he told him fiercely, his eyes flashing. “I just didn’t expect someone else to beat me to it.”

Mike seemed to catch on to Grantaire’s train of thought and glowered at him. “You think _I_ had something to do with this?” he snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Only one of us is an assassin, and it sure as hell isn’t me.”

The look on Grantaire’s face flashed from irritation to confusion to hurt and back to confusion. “Well if you didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it - which I clearly didn’t - then who the hell took the shot?”

Mike tore his eyes away from Grantaire’s and looked down at his watch. “I don’t know. But I gotta call this in. Especially since I’m pretty sure the Bureau heard this entire conversation.”

Grantaire snorted derisively. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Mike. The Agency will clean this up. They’ll work something out with the Bureau. They always do. And in the meantime, I will disappear, and it will be as if you never even met me.”

Now Mike’s eyes flashed to his, and after only a moment of hesitation, he turned off the microphone in his watch. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice suddenly hoarse. “How can you say that it’ll be as if I never even met you? Do you know what this has done to me? Even if you disappear, that won’t change.”

Shaking his head, Grantaire refused to meet his eyes. “It’s probably for the best,” he said softly, just loud enough that it still carried to Mike. “No more moral ambiguity for you. No more wanting something that I’ll never have for me. You can go back to being just Mike Warren, FBI Agent.”

“But I’m _not_ just Mike Warren,” Mike replied, his voice heated. “I’m also...a part of me is also Enjolras. And I’m sorry I didn’t realize that before, but--” He bit off the rest of his words as Grantaire heaved his duffel bag over his shoulder. “You can’t just walk away from this! You can’t leave things like this! Grantaire--”

Grantaire shook his head even more firmly. “No. I can. And I will. This is the job, Mike. This is what it’s always been. And for the first time in either in my lives, I am standing here and telling you no. Because this is one thing that I don’t need your permission for.” He readjusted the duffel bag and met Mike’s eyes squarely. “Have a good life, Agent Warren. It’s been a pleasure never knowing you.”

Then he was gone, leaving Mike standing on the rooftop, gun at his side, completely and utterly lost.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the whole mess. A massive thanks to everyone who's read, kudos'd, commented, etc.!
> 
> For the last time, I don't own Graceland, Les Mis, their subsequent characters, etcetera ad nauseam.

Gerry threw the case file down across from Mike, and Mike couldn’t help but flinch slightly at the sound it made smacking against the table. “So let me get this straight,” he repeated, massaging his temples. “You ‘had a feeling’ that there would be a sniper to take down Petrovich, and decided to pursue instead of calling it in and getting the Bureau involved, breaking about a dozen regs in the process, I would add. Then, you get to the top of the building and your watch transmitter mysteriously goes out for the entirety of the time you’re up there. Additionally, despite your claims that you saw no one, you were up on top of that roof for almost twenty minutes. That’s a long twenty minutes to be doing nothing, Agent Warren.”

Mike shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “I already gave my full report and have nothing more to add, sir.”

Sighing heavily, Gerry sat down across from him. “This entire investigation has gone completely to hell, but apparently it doesn’t matter what bullshit you gave in your report. The upper levels have cleared you of any wrongdoing and officially closed the case. Any details are listed as redacted.”

Now Mike breathed a sigh of relief, though he was careful to keep his expression neutral. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me just yet.” Gerry leaned forward, his hands steepled in front of him. “This is going to go in your file.”

Mike frowned. “But sir, if I was cleared of any wrongdoing--”

Gerry interrupted him. “That’s not what’s going in your file. You’ve received a commendation.”

Staring at him blankly, Mike just managed to put the words together to ask incredulously, “From the Bureau? Not to question the Bureau’s decision, sir, but that doesn’t make any sense?”

“It’s not from the Bureau. You have received a commendation from the Central Intelligence Agency for Excellence in the Field while working with a CIA operative.” Gerry stared at him levelly. “Oddly enough, we have no details in any report of you working with a CIA operative at any point. Which is why I imagine most of the details have been listed as redacted.” Mike met his gaze squarely, and after a long moment Gerry sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to wait until the details of the operation are declassified to learn whatever the hell happened out there.”

He grabbed the file and stood, but Mike cleared his throat and asked quickly, “Sir, does it say who put in for my commendation on the Agency’s side?”

Gerry frowned at him but glanced in the file. “It’s redacted,” he said flatly. Mike nodded, having not expected much, but then Gerry’s frown deepened. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird, sir?” Mike asked, holding his breath.

“There’s a typo on the commendation. There’s a space between the ‘r’ and the rest of the word in redacted. See?”

He slid the file across to Mike, who looked at it, letting out all his breath in a huff. There, under commissioning officer, the name was blacked out, followed by: “R edacted.”

It didn’t mean anything.

It _couldn’t_ mean anything.

And yet Mike stared at the capital R separated from the rest of the word and felt something painful grip his heart. It was an _awfully_ big coincidence. And if this latest case had taught him anything, it was that coincidences didn’t really exist. After a long moment, Mike nodded and slid the file back to Gerry. “Thank you, sir,” he said softly,

It hurt worse than anything else could have, the knowledge that Grantaire had put in for Mike to get a commendation out of this. It was something like an apology, but an absent apology. Mike would have given almost anything for Grantaire to be here, unapologetic as he had been on that rooftop, would have traded this apology away in an instant for that to happen.

But that could never happen, and so Mike stood, thanked Gerry one more time, and left to return to Graceland, and to the inexplicable emptiness that awaited him there.

* * *

 

When Mike would later talk about the weeks that followed, he would say that he threw himself back into work to try and distract himself from anything to do with Enjolras, Grantaire, Petrovich, and the entire mess. The truth was that Mike did work, yes, and ran longer and farther every day in an attempt to clear his mind, but not even work could distract him 24/7, and when he wasn’t working, he had developed several habits that his housemates found a little odd.

For starters, he had begun reading anything he could get his hands on regarding French history, particularly post-French Revolution, particularly focused on a small, failed student rebellion in the 1830s. And then he had the tendency to mope, which was never something Mike would have done, always being one inclined to action. But now, he seemed to spend half his time on the couch in the living room, brooding. And once, Charlie walked in on him crying while watching the end of _Danton_ , and while her mothering instincts kicked in and she pulled him into a hug until he had cried it out, she also had a long talk with their housemates about what was going on with him.

None of them knew exactly what was wrong, but they were all smart enough people to know that it had something to do with their now-missing final housemate. All of them missed R in their own ways, but they knew that there had been more going on between Mike and R than just being housemates, or even being training officer and trainee.

Johnny was the first to mention it to the group, as was perhaps unsurprising, given how tuned-in he was to the emotions in the house. “Are we just not gonna talk about Mike and R?” he asked at dinner one night when Mike was - as seemed usual of late - absent.

“Not our business,” Jakes said instantly, stabbing a piece of pasta with his fork with perhaps more vehemence than normal.

Johnny gave him a dirty look. “They’re our housemates, or at least Mikey still is. Of course it’s our business.”

Paige shrugged, though she didn’t meet Johnny’s eyes. “I have to agree with Jakes here. If Mike had wanted us to know, if he had wanted us involved, he would have told us what was going on, and since he hasn’t, we shouldn’t say anything.”

Now Johnny’s dirty look switched to Paige, and he asked dryly, “Is this because of how things ended between you and Mike, or is this actually you trying to be a friend? Because either way--”

Paige’s eyes flashed and she was about to retort when Charlie stepped in. “That’s enough.” Charlie’s voice was quiet but firm, though her fingers tapping almost nervously on the counter betrayed her anxiety over the situation. “Levi’s a big boy who can make his own decisions for when - or if - he wants to tell us anything. And in the meantime, we will continue to be there for him, got it?” Johnny ducked his head and grumbled something, and Charlie repeated, “Got it?”

Johnny nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

And that was the end of that discussion.

Still, if Mike didn’t notice the concerned looks that his housemates were now giving him, it could have been because he was blind, since even Jakes stopped him one day to ask him in a low voice, “Are you ok, man?”

Mike didn’t know what - if anything - to tell them, because how does one explain, exactly, that he was the reincarnated form a French student who had staged a rebellion and gotten killed while hand-in-hand with the man he loved, who just happened to have been reincarnated as a CIA operative masquerading as an FBI trainee? So instead, he shrugged whenever anyone asked if he was ok, and continued brooding as if that would somehow make everything better.

It was on one of these brooding days that Mike was huddled on the couch, having long since abandoned the pretense of watching TV, instead staring out at the rough waves. The doorbell rang and Mike was jerked out of his reverie, sitting up and running the heels of his hands against his eyes. He sighed as he stood, and shoved his hands in his hoodie’s pockets before slumping over to the door to see who was there. Almost without looking, he opened the door, then froze upon seeing familiar blue eyes and dark curls, his breath sticking in his throat. “Grantaire?” he managed after a long moment of gaping at him.

Grantaire smiled at him, a small, nervous smile, and hitched his backpack higher up on his shoulder as he shifted awkwardly. “Um, hi.”

Mike did not smile, his face settling into a cold mask as he blocked the doorway with his body, his grip on the door so tight that his knuckles were white. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Grantaire shrugged, his smile fading. “I was all set to disappear the way that I’m supposed to, but then I got my next assignment from the Agency. And, well, it appears that I have been assigned to Graceland.”

“The FBI, DEA and ICE were on board with that?” Mike’s voice was sharp, perhaps sharper than it should have been, and Grantaire’s face tightened as he met Mike’s eyes defiantly.

“I wouldn’t be here without full authority from all parties.” He matched Mike’s sharp tone, and Mike almost flinched at hearing the frosty voice reflected back at him.

His expression softened, but only slightly, and he still made no move to let Grantaire into the house, even if he relaxed his grip ever so slightly on the door. “I was under the impression that the CIA can’t operate domestically.”

Shaking his head, Grantaire ran a hand through his hair as he corrected softly, “No, the CIA is prohibited from spying on the domestic activities of US citizens. Which, presumably, I would not be required to do.”

“Presumably?” Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.

Grantaire just shrugged again. “To be entirely honest, I don’t really think they have anything in mind for me at the moment. Going into the FBI’s files and redacting all the information on the Petrovich case was not a part of my mission, and it caused quite the headache at the agency, especially since in the end it wasn’t even me who took him down. Besides which, my cover’s blown to you, and if I leave, there’s the potential for Graceland’s cover to be blown. At this point, it’s safer to leave me here. Out of sight and out of mind. So. Here I am.”

Mike stared at him for a long moment, struggling to find a way to put to words all the things that he wanted to say, the things that he had thought and cried over, thinking he would never get the chance to say them. Now that Grantaire was here, now that he was looking at him, there was really only one thing that he could say. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? Leaving me like you did?”

A pained look flashed across Grantaire’s face. “Mike--” he started, but Mike cut him off by crossing over to him and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Don’t you dare do that again. Whatever else happens, don’t you dare walk away from me like that again.”

Grantaire was still for just a moment before hugging Mike back, as tightly as he could. “You know I can’t promise that,” he whispered, his voice soft, almost gentle. “Not in this line of work. You can’t promise that you won’t have to walk away either.”

Mike nodded, making no effort to pull away from Grantaire. "I know that." And objectively, he did. But he also knew that there was too much between them at this point for either to really walk away at this point, regardless of what the Bureau or Agency ordered. "But if you disappear again, I will find you."

"Now you're the one who can't promise that," Grantaire said softly, chuckling slightly. "If I don't want to be found, you won't find me. But..." He trailed off, his grip on Mike tightening. "I can promise that I would want to be found by you."

They stayed that way for a long moment, and then Mike pulled away, almost reluctantly. "I suppose you could come inside," he said with a shaky laugh.

Grantaire laughed as well and followed him inside. They sat next to each other on the couch, and after a long moment of awkward silence, Grantaire cleared his throat. "So, uh, so what are we now? Are we...dating? Together? Just friends?"

"Not...not _just_ friends," Mike said with only a little hesitation. "I don't know yet what exactly we are but it's safe to say we're not just friends. We've never been just friends."

Nodding, Grantaire smiled at him. "I agree, of course, but this is really about what you want. I'm down with anything."

Mike took a deep breath and leaned forward, his expression serious. “Before we do anything, I want to get to know you. Actually know you, the _real_ you. And if we’re going to this, do _anything_ , really, there can’t be any more secrets. No more lies, complete honesty from here on out.”

“Complete honesty except when national security is at stake,” Grantaire said, his voice just as serious, though there was still a teasing edge to it.

Rolling his eyes, Mike sighed but managed to smile slightly. “Fine, complete honesty at top secret clearance level and down, alright?”

Now Grantaire really smiled, a relaxed, genuine smile. “I can agree to that completely. And I really am sorry about everything that happened...before.”

“I know.” Mike’s voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “And I’m sorry, too. About everything that I said, and everything that I didn’t get a chance to say. So let me start with the honesty now.” With slightly trembling fingers, he reached out and cupped Grantaire’s cheek, breath catching in his throat as Grantaire half-closed his eyes and leaned into his touch. “Enjolras loved you. I know he never got to tell you that, never got to show you, but he did.”

“And I’m not Enjolras. I will never be exactly like he was.” He paused and took a deep breath. “But I’m also not just Mike Warren. Not anymore. And, to be entirely honest, I don’t know what I feel for you, if this is just Enjolras’s leftover feelings or something more than that, and I really have no fucking clue what I am doing, but if you’re willing to be patient with me and give me time to figure all of this out, then I’m willing to try.”

Grantaire was silent for a long moment, almost to the point where Mike would have panicked were it not for the fact that Grantaire didn’t pull away at all, but then Grantaire said quietly, “I don’t love you the way that I loved...that _Grantaire_ , the old Grantaire, loved Enjolras.”

It took all of Mike’s effort to not pull away, to not let the sudden hurt that flooded through him show on his face, and as if anticipating that, Grantaire reached up, wrapping his fingers around Mike’s wrist, keeping his palm pressed against Grantaire’s cheek. “Let me explain.” Mike nodded without speaking, waiting for Grantaire to continue. “The old Grantaire...the way he loved Enjolras...it wasn’t necessarily healthy, to be honest. Grantaire worshipped Enjolras, venerated him, held him to an almost inhuman standard. But you…” Grantaire trailed off, a smile flashing across his face. “You are so wonderfully and perfectly human. It’s part of what I love about you. Actually you, not Enjolras. Which is my way of saying that I agree. The part of me that's the old Grantaire will always blindly love Enjolras, but as you said, you're not him, and I'm not exactly like Grantaire. And that means that I'm incredibly lucky."

Mike frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

Grantaire's smile was crooked as he told him, "I get to fall in love with you all over again."

Blushing, Mike ducked his head and laughed lightly. "I guess we are lucky." He paused, mulling something over in his head. “And I was thinking…” Mike took a deep breath before saying, “If you wanted, when we’re alone, or whatever, if you wanted to call me Enjolras, I think that would be ok with me. He’s...he’s a part of who I am, and it’s not such a bad thing to be reminded of that.”

Grantaire’s answering grin was wide and bright, and Mike relaxed slightly looking at it. “Does that mean that I can call you Enj?” Grantaire teased.

Mike wrinkled his nose. “The part of me that’s Enjolras is giving a very emphatic ‘no’ at that one. Isn’t that basically like calling me the French word for angel?”

Now Grantaire’s eyes lit up. “Oh, but that’s a perfect cover. We can just tell everyone that my nickname for you is ‘Angel’ and that I like calling you it in French.”

Snorting slightly, Mike shook his head. “I’m still going to go with no on this one, but I have a feeling that you’re definitely going to ignore me.”

“Probably,” Grantaire said cheerfully. Then he bit his lip slightly. “So, uh, speaking of perfect cover stories, are we going to tell everyone, or…?”

Mike looked down at his hands. “I don’t want to keep anything from them,” he said in a low voice. “Not after everything that we’ve been through as a house. That being said, I don’t know if I want to tell them _yet_ , since I still have a lot to wrap my head around when it comes to, you know, dating a guy, and I don’t know if I’m ready to have them asking me those questions too.”

Grantaire nodded, and Mike’s heart leapt at the fact that he didn’t look even remotely disappointed by that answer. “I’m willing to wait as long as you want,” he said honestly, “just so long as when it’s just the two of us, I can do what I’ve been waiting to do since I saw you.”

Cocking his head at him slightly, Mike raised his eyebrow and asked, “And what is it that you’ve been waiting to do?”

“This.” Grantaire reached out and pulled him close, kissing him gently on the lips. Mike’s breath caught in his throat for a moment until his locked his fingers into Grantaire’s silky curls, and then his mouth opened against Grantaire’s as he deepened the kiss.

They kissed for a long moment, the kiss full of the million unspoken things that had passed between them, and they didn’t break apart until they heard what sounded suspiciously like a plate break in the kitchen, and they both turned to find Johnny staring at them. “Dudes, either I am still drunk from last night, or you two were just making out.”

Mike exchanged a look with Grantaire, who mostly looked like he was trying not to laugh, and said quickly, “Johnny, it’s--”

Johnny cut him off, holding up a hand. “Man, I do not want to know. What you two do is your business. Just don’t fuck up Graceland again, a’ight?”

With that said, he turned and left, and Grantaire turned back to Mike, smile growing on his face. “Well, now that Johnny knows…”

“Everybody’s gonna know,” Mike finished, only looking mildly chagrined. “Well, I suppose they were going to find out eventually. And besides--” he pulled Grantaire close to him again, resting his forehead against his “--now we can do this whenever we want.” And then he kissed Grantaire, catching Grantaire’s chuckle with his mouth.

He was not Enjolras, and he would never be, but right here, with Grantaire at his side, Mike was never gladder that he _wasn’t_ Enjolras, because he had what Enjolras was never able to, and despite everything that they had to figure out, both together and separately, that fact alone was enough to make it all worth it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [It Wasn't Written For You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881054) by [Princessfbi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessfbi/pseuds/Princessfbi)
  * [Not Interested in Atonement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260641) by [Princessfbi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessfbi/pseuds/Princessfbi)




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